Lament
by Pearl Emerald
Summary: Post-"Dagger". Jimmy Palmer morosely reminisces, vodka in hand, about his relationship with Michelle Lee, after her death. Rated T for language, and alcohol.


Disclaimer: NCIS = do not own. CBS = ownage. I commandeered Jimmy's personality and mind, though. T for alcohol, language, etc.

**Lament**

They had him pegged as a beer kind of fellow, Jimmy Palmer knew. Light, a little goofy, with the tendency to linger after his departure. Perhaps a white wine, or a tequila. Nothing heavy, or hard, nothing intense. And they were right.

Except tonight. Tonight, Palmer was on a mission to become as drunk as possible, as quickly as possible, alone in his apartment but for the handle of vodka next to him.

_Michie…_

It was unfair, damn it. He drank from the already half-empty bottle. He knew, subconsciously, that he was taking this harder than he should have been. His own insecurities, his disbelief that the typified Beauty would deign, willingly, to pair herself with the Autopsy Gremlin. For that alone he was devoted to her.

He took another swig of vodka. The smell of her hair, the twist of her seemingly innocent smile, her bland clothing masking her trim figure, her large, clear brown eyes…pushed by the quantity of alcohol already consumed, Palmer slid easily from his seat on the loveseat onto the wooden floor.

_Michie…_

He slammed his fist down onto the floor. He didn't feel anything. He slammed his fist onto the floor again. He heard the picture frames on his kitchen table rattle, but still didn't feel anything.

He wasn't acting irrationally, he told himself. A woman he cared for, worked alongside, revealed to be a spy in NCIS. He had learned of this, and taken it in relative stride. And then, not a week later, he had received news of her death. Palmer had still cared for her, then.

Not irrational at all, he told himself, half as consolation, half as excuse.

He drank more.

He wasn't angry with any of them. Not her, not the people he worked with. Hell, Palmer wasn't even angry with Special Agent Gibbs. He understood that she had asked Gibbs to fire. He understood that she would have been imprisoned for life, could even have been recommended for the death penalty, for undermining national security. He understood that shooting her redeemed her, in some perverse way, in the eyes of Gibbs, her sister, and NCIS.

He understood, but that didn't mean he liked it.

He took another drink.

They had drunk together, before. It had been late, she had been in her cubicle for hours after the necessary time, and he had come to see her with a shy smile and an invitation to go out for a drink. This had been after they had been…together…for some time. She had giggled (he swooned, craving her giggles) and acquiesced. It had been beers, then, until she revealed a fondness for red wine, and rum. He had laughed, and confessed that he was more of a tequila man, himself. After that, drinking together became a treat, on the weekends, at night, once in a blue moon. They had much in common. They were slightly claustrophobic, liked romantic comedies and film noir, devoured carrots by the pound.

Neither of them liked vodka; bitter taste, bitter memories, bitter emotion, came from drinking vodka.

In an ironic toast to her, he drank again.

_Michie_…he had called her that, once, a term of endearment, and she had flinched. He hadn't known why, didn't ask. It wasn't until after she died that he learned of her sister, her secret, her only family, who had called her the same.

He drank again.

Palmer wondered what else had she could have withheld from him. Besides her sister, that is. If she had been willing to rat out her employers, her government, her _country_, damn it, then what was to stop him from imagining anything else she could have used to trick him? He slammed his hand onto the floor, but the impact was weakened by the alcohol coursing through his circulatory system.

He drank.

_Oh, Michie…_A lament, a requiem. Palmer didn't understand, he couldn't. He was never this upset, never emoted so negatively or so much. They had known each other for a few months, six or seven at the most. Was it possible to become so attached in so short a time? Was he growing soft, becoming distracted, by that most simple of emotions? Why were his insecurities invading now?

He took another drink.

He wondered why he had never doubted her before, if there had been any warning signs overlooked in the blissful afterglow of their relationship. He wondered if her sister had truly been worth more to her than the security of the free world. He wondered if she knew how close he had been to asking her to be his girlfriend, officially, like in high school. His thoughts whirled; he could _see _them as he stared out the window at the light rain, twirling like snowflakes as they fell from the typewriter in his mind. Was it his thoughts, or was it the rain, or just the drink? He couldn't tell. Vodka always made him moody.

It was too much, all of it. The vodka, the thoughts of her, the reminders of his own failings, his own awkwardness, the sudden closing-in of his apartment walls. Even for just one person, the room was growing smaller.

He went to take another drink, but the bottle was too heavy for Palmer to lift. He pushed the bottle away, gently as he would, and slumped pathetically on the floor. He wanted to cry, tried to force it out of his tired eyes, but tears and whimpers would not come. He wanted to be held, cradled like a beloved puppy, but such action would only remind him of her. He wanted to be alone, he wanted to not be alone. He wanted to be numb, to forget Michelle Lee, yet at the same time he wanted to wrap himself in memories of her.

_Michie_...

What more could he do? What more could be done? Palmer knew that nothing could be done for now. He remembered that someone famous, a long time ago, had said that time heals all wounds. Palmer knew that famous person was almost right; time made wounds fester, until they controlled the mind and soul, but the wound would heal, eventually. He knew that he would be fine, eventually. Right now, he wanted to wallow; it suited him, at the moment.

He dragged himself back onto the loveseat, nearly displacing the vodka bottle with his immobile feet. He pulled the wool blanket his mother had given him in college down, and wiggled until it covered his legs and torso. With heavy arms, he took off his glasses and put them on the floor next to the couch.

His last coherent thought that night was of her eyes. Her name, a whisper on the wind.

Then, black, all around him.


End file.
